Assumptions and Ignorance
by EvelynThursday
Summary: A group of new recruits only watch as Athos stumbles into the tavern after a mission drunk. Only he isn't drunk, he's badly hurt. Will their negligence and assumptions cost Athos his life?
1. Past and Present

NOTES:

My first multi-chapter story! It's mostly written, (I think, it could end up longer than I expect) so I'll try and get all the pieces up in some sort of schedule. Every Monday, perhaps?

Inspired by this prompt on the Musketeers Kink Meme (any excuse for hurting Athos) -

'I read a brilliant fic on AO3 where Porthos and Aramis got angry with Athos for pretending to be hungover when he was in fact injured, so as not to worry them.

I'd like to see this idea inverted: Athos genuinely is injured or sick but when his friends see his dulled awareness and sluggishness they assume he's hungover and say something like 'God sake, Athos, again?!'

Athos is so ashamed that his previous habits have caused them to jump to that conclusion that he keeps silent and doesn't tell them what's really the matter. Before long, he collapses and there is oodles of guilt, hurt and comfort all round!'

. ?thread=1521341#cmt1521341

I never know what warnings I need to put up. Do I need more or a higher rating?

* * *

Treville strode into the small but bustling tavern. Looking round he could spot the group of new recruits huddled round a few of the tables, outnumbering the regulars, but not his four most trusted men. He had taken a group of 15 new recruits to a small village a few days riding out from Paris to put them through their paces. His inseparables were on a few separate errands for the king and had passed through together a few days before to set up the training and to get some rooms before splitting up to do their duties and were due back today to meet here to help with the training. He himself had just got back from checking the preparations for the next day. He wandered over to the group and was met with tired but jubilant faces.

"Sir, sit here! Have a drink to celebrate!"

He was handed a beaker of wine by one of the men and held it aloft as someone toasted

"to all those who passed the riding test" followed by a cheer. Today had been the test of horse handling skills and all had passed. Tomorrow was the training and testing of their shooting skills, with Aramis' help, if he had arrived. The day after was fencing with Athos and then followed by hand to hand with Porthos. D'Artagnan was not yet the expert in anything yet so he would be helping with all of the training.

Speaking of his best men, where were they? He asked the triumphant gathering and was confused to hear the answer.

"Athos passed through here an hour ago, looking like he'd had a few drinks, sir." The man speaking sounded like he had had a few drinks himself. "He was so deep in the bottle that he could barely walk. We haven't seen the others."

Concern gathered at the base of his stomach at the words and clenched tightly. Athos may have a few demons, but he never let them affect his abilities to serve the regiment. And they had agreed to meet in the tavern's common room, not upstairs in the private rooms. Even if he needed a wash and change he should be back downstairs again by now.

He managed to excuse himself from the recruits and started to climb the stairs. He was halfway up before he could see down the corridor of the floor above. There, a few feet away was the slumped shape of a man, lying face down, right shoulder propped up against the whitewashed wall. Treville took the last of the steps in a few leaps as he hurried to the man's side, eyes scanning the body and immediately identifying the pauldron as Athos' even as his face was pressed into the floor. On the wall above the body there was a bloody handprint smeared downwards, as if made whilst the hand, or the body attached to the hand, was falling.

Treville carefully turned the man over; Athos didn't make a sound and was completely limp, face lax and skin paper white. Bending over, ear over his mouth and pressing his fingers to the other man's neck he was relieved to find he was still breathing and his heart was beating, although both were very faint. Now that he had been moved he could see the puddle of blood that had formed on the floor underneath a wound.

Moving Athos' leather coat aside he could see a once white bandage wrapped around his stomach, over his shirt, both now stained heavily with red. One hand too, presumably the one that had left the mark on the wall, was covered in blood.

Treville turned at the sound of a foot on the stairs, one hand making its way towards the sword on his hip, to protect the fallen man, which paused and relaxed when he saw who was making his way up.

Porthos paused on a step, paling when he saw the identity and state of the man lying beside his captain. He too covered the remaining distance in a few bounds and crouched beside his friend.

Treville laid a hand on the other man's shoulder.

"Can you carry him to his room? I'll go and ask the landlord for some hot water and bandages and see if there is a surgeon in the village. Aramis and d'Artagnan aren't here yet, so I'll get them sent up when they do." Porthos nodded and started to carefully work his arms under Athos' shoulders and knees. Treville stood to get out of the way, but stayed to watch Porthos tenderly lift the unconscious man in the air. His head fell backwards over Porthos' arm, bloodied hand resting over his stomach and the other hand hung limply towards the floor. Treville was always amazed at how his arms could break one man's neck but cradle another one's body so carefully.

Turning, Treville made his way back downstairs. Entering the common room he looked towards the group still merrily drinking and chatting away. They were all idiots if they couldn't tell a drunk man from an injured one, especially one who had just finished a mission and therefore was most likely to be hurt then drunk. This was the only tavern for miles, how could anyone get drunk outside of here? He would have to deal with them in the morning, making sure his man would live was the more pressing issue.

The landlord was tending bar, so he wove his way between tables and chairs towards him.

* * *

An hour earlier...

Athos stumbled through the door, trying to discreetly clutch at the wound in his right side with one hand and keep himself upright with the other. His entrance was obviously not unnoticed as a jeer went up from the group of new recruits.

"Hey, there's Athos the drunkard! Deep in your cups already are you? If you can become a Musketeer in that state then we'll get a commission easily!"

Scanning the room he couldn't spot his friends or his captain. He seemed to be the first one back. As he shuffled around the scatted furniture, trying not to wince or make a noise as every step sent shooting pains up his side, the heckling continued.

"We're going to beat you come fencing day! Look at you, you drunkard, you can't even walk in a straight line!"

He tried to ignore the taunts, but the words stung deep. If the recruits, who had only joined the regiment a few weeks ago, knew about his vices then who else know? Would he bring shame and disappointment on the regiment? Ashamed, he made towards the stairs towards his room, where he could try to see to his wound and wait for the others to return.

The stairs felt like he was climbing a mountain and by the time he had got to the top, he was breathing heavily, his vision was swirling alarmingly and he felt like he was going to throw up, but he resisted that urge as he knew that being sick would only aggravate his already agonizing side, not to mention the mess that their host would have to clear up.

Half way down the corridor, only a few steps away from the top of the stairs, his vision greyed suddenly and he staggered, flinging out the hand that was covering his injury onto the nearest wall to try and keep himself upright.

His vision failed completely as Athos crumpled, completely unconscious by the time he met the ground.


	2. Sewing Wounds

NOTES: I have no clue about medical practices back then (apart from they didn't know of the importance of washing their hands, or rather they didn't a few centuries later) so please ignore any errors (not that there is much description of them anyway). I may have named the barmaid/landlord's daughter after one of my best friends. Not that we ever called her it as she didn't like her full name, but I thought it fitted here.

* * *

_Present_

Treville entered through the only open door in the corridor and spotted Porthos leaning over the figure in the bed. Athos had been stripped down to his shirt and breeches and barely seemed to be breathing. The room was filled with candles, illuminating the room helping Porthos see if Athos had any other injuries. The light from the window opposite the door was starting to fade.

Porthos turned round and regarded his captain. Treville was shown a small cut on the side of Athos' wrist, crusted over with dried blood and had long since stopped bleeding. "He's got a few nicks, but none are worth stitching. It's the side wound that's the problem."

Treville nodded, looking grim, but slightly relieved at the news; it was only one wound that they had to tend to.

"The local surgeon is away visiting family and the local herbalist is no help to us. And it would be too dark to ride back if we went to the next village to get their surgeon and Athos is in no fit state to be moved. We are going to have to do it ourselves until Aramis gets back."

Porthos looked worried.

"Aramis says my stitching is terrible. My hands aren't steady enough." Treville put a hand on his shoulder.

"It may have been a few years since I last stitched a wound but I should be able to do a passable job. It may not be pretty, but the stitches will hold. The landlord is sending the maid up with hot water and bandages. You can keep the wound clean whilst I stitch. If he wakes you'll have to hold him down, but judging from the looks of him nothing will wake him at the moment." Porthos nodded as a young woman knocked on the doorframe.

"Here are the bandages, sirs. The hot water will be up presently and I took the liberty of bringing up some food; neither of you have eaten since you arrived. Is there anything else that you require?" She placed the tray she was carrying onto the nearby dresser then went back to stand in the doorway. Treville dismissed her with a polite,

"No thank you Charlotte. Just make sure Aramis and d'Artagnan get sent up here as soon as they arrive," and then went over to the dresser to investigate the contents of the tray. He found several rolls of bandages and two bowls of soup and a plate of bread and cheese.

He threw one of the pieces of bread at Porthos, who managed to catch it without really looking, whilst taking a bite out of the other. The other man was looking at the food in his hand with distaste. "Eat Porthos. You're not going to be any help if you're hungry. Even if you don't feel like eating it, it'll do you good. We can't do anything until the hot water gets up here." He took another bite whilst grabbing the bandages with his other hand and placing them on the bed by Athos' hip. His sewing kit that he had retrieved from his saddle bags after speaking to the landlord was put next to the bandages and the plate of bread and cheese was moved to Porthos' lap, where they both could get at it from their places on stool at Athos' side. The soup was left on the tray untouched.

They had both managed to eat a little bread and cheese, both men's stomach refusing much food at the concern of their brother-in-arms, before Charlotte reappeared carrying two bowls of steaming water. Treville stood to relieve her of them after placing the plate of barely touched food back with the uneaten soup.

"I'll be back with another bowl of water in a few minutes, if you need anything more you only need shout, I'll be in the kitchen." Said the maid and went back down stairs.

Both bowls went to Porthos, one on the bedside table beside him and the other in his lap. He began to tear one roll of bandages into rags with his knife whilst Treville laid out this sewing kit and threaded the needle.

Athos still lay unmoving on the bed, pale and barely seeming to breathe.

When both men were ready they took the bandages off from around the prone man's stomach and tugged the ruined shirt high enough that they could see the wound. There was a large gash running across his right side and stomach that pointed towards his navel. It was still bleeding sluggishly and looked deep, but with careful probing was thankfully found not to be deep enough to damage any organs.

Treville started to stitch, trying to balance skill with speed; it had to be done carefully enough so that the stitches will hold enough for the wound to heal, but quick enough that Athos didn't lose any more blood, he had lost a near fatal amount already. Porthos was using the rags he had made and the bowls of water to clean the wound enough that his captain could see what he was doing. The water was turning red with speed. Even the third bowl that the maid brought up darkened quickly.

Athos still lay unmoving under their administrations.

A clatter of boots on the stairs broke both men's attention away from their studious task; Treville paused, needle in hand, three quarters of the way along the 8 inch long wound, recognising the two treads up the wooden boards. A few seconds later Aramis and d'Artagnan pushed themselves though the doorway, pausing in shock and horror at the sight before them. D'Artagnan leaned against the wall and looked sick as Aramis rushed to his Captain's side to get a better view of his friend's wound. He was pleased at how the stitching was progressing.

"You finish that, sir; I'll get a salve out of my pack to cover the wound before we bandage it." He gave d'Artagnan's arm a pat on his way out of the room.

"Do you know how this happened?" The youngest asked. "Was he attacked here? The innkeeper's daughter is cleaning blood off the floor and wall by the stairs."

"No, I don't know what happened," Treville answered, head bowed over his work "it would seem that he was injured before he got here, and his blood loss was mistaken for drunkenness by the recruits. He collapsed in the hall and laid there until I found him an hour later."

"Bastards!" Muttered Porthos who was echoed by Aramis who had just entered the room and had heard Treville's answer to d'Artagnan's questions.

As Treville finished the stitches and tied off the thread, Porthos switched places with Aramis whose nimble fingers spread salve onto the wound before helping to bandage his friend. Porthos commented on the neatness of the stitches that were now decorating the side of his friend.

"He's almost as good as you, Aramis." Treville smiled and threw his hands in the air and arched is back, stretching.

"I have had practice over the years, but I haven't had to use those skills in a while. My back certainly isn't used to sitting hunched over like that." He looked over to the young man leaning against the wall by the door, standing hunched over, arms crossed against his chest and looking miserable. "Are you alright d'Artagnan?" He nodded.

"How's Athos?"

"Weak," said Aramis who was checking him over, "he's lost a lot of blood. He may not last the night. We just have to hope that he doesn't get an infection - that would end it for sure."

Porthos moved to d'Artagnan's side and slung an arm round his shoulders.

"Athos is strong, he won't give up. And it's not your fault; if you had gone with him instead of Aramis then we may have ended up losing both of you. If you need to find someone at fault, blame the idiots downstairs who saw he needed help and did nothing."

"Why would they think that he was drunk? They knew that we were all away on missions."

"There was a Red Guard spreading slander about us, last time Porthos and I went out to the tavern, it would seem that the recruits believed the lies about Athos." Said Aramis.

Porthos looked livid.

"I'm going to flay them alive! And that damn Red Guard when we get back to Paris!"

"Calm down Porthos," said Treville, "you'll get your chance to hit them tomorrow, I'm moving the hand-to-hand fighting forward and you can drive them as hard as you like as punishment for this. And be careful with that guard, you know the Cardinal hates it when you incapacitate his men." He paused and looked round at his men. "I'll go ask the landlord for some chairs. Knowing you three you'll want to stay here tonight, and you'll get no rest on those stools."

In the background you could hear the recruits settling down to sleep in their tents at the edge of the village as Treville descended the stairs. Being the best of the Musketeers, and as incentive to help with the training, the inseparables had each been given rooms at the tavern, but with one of their member critically injured they were not going to be used as they each planned to stay up all night in a constant vigil.


	3. Waiting

Oops, sorry! Forgot to keep updating this! I've been trying to get this as updated as the story on AO3 but I got distracted by real life. I'll try and get the story here at the same point as the one on AO3.

* * *

Aramis motioned to Porthos.

"Let's get Athos out of this ruined shirt. He'll rest better when he's warm and comfortable." Porthos moved away from d'Artagnan's side to help, leaving the younger man watching, knowing that the two friends had it in hand and he would only get in the way. It left him with time to think and feel guilty. He had had the choice a few days before, on which order to do his errands in as his duties meant that he could choose to finish the mission with either Aramis or Athos. As he wanted a chance to improve his shooting he chose Aramis. If he had gone with Athos he may have been able to stop him being hurt, or at the very least made sure that he got some medical attention as soon as he arrived in the village. He knew he was being irrational, but it hurt to feel like he was in some small way responsible for his friend's state.

By the time Treville had come into the room with the landlord, both managing to carry two chairs each, Athos was dressed in one of his clean shirts that Aramis had grabbed out of his saddlebags when he went to get his salve (all their belonging were currently in the stables as the hadn't managed to get them upstairs yet; Athos was too injured to carry them, Porthos was hurrying to find Athos after discovering a stable boy cleaning blood off Athos' horse and Aramis and d'Artagnan had rushed from the stable after being told of their companion's injuries) and covered in a multitude of blankets taken from their adjoining unused rooms.

The chairs were gathered around the bed in the middle of the room and as the landlord left the room they all settled down in them. Even d'Artagnan left his spot by the wall to sit at his mentor's side.

From his position, now close enough to touch, d'Artagnan could see that Athos' lips were pale and his fingernails were slightly blue at the base. Reaching out to grasp the still fingers with one hand he was shocked to find them almost ice cold and moved to clasp them between his two warm hands in an attempt to warm them up. He looked over at Aramis, concerned.

"It's the blood loss, his skin will feel cool whilst he recovers from the wound. He'll be feeling the cold for a few weeks."

Charlotte appeared at the doorway again and spotted the untouched bowls of soup that she had left earlier.

"You lads need something to eat. I know your friend is badly hurt, but you all will need to eat something if you are going to look after him. I've got a big pot of stew going for you, I expect you all to eat it!" She took the tray of bowls and descended the stairs into the kitchen. Aramis raised his eyebrows and grinned.

"I like her, she's bossy!"

Porthos snorted, Treville grinned and even d'Artagnan gave a little smile at Aramis' small attempt to lighten the mood of the room.

Silence descended again until Charlotte came into the room carrying a large pot in one hand and a pile of bowls in the other. A bunch of spoons could be seen peeking out from the pocket of her apron. Porthos hurried to her side and relieved her of the pot and put it near the fire to keep warm as instructed. The bowls and spoons went on the top of the dresser.

"I don't expect you to eat now, but I want all the stew gone by morning. It'll keep warm until you feel like eating. Is there anything else you need?" There were shaking heads all round. "I'm retiring now so if you need me later just knock on the first door to the right after you've gone through the kitchen. I bid you gentlemen goodnight." She left, leaving four men trying to get comfortable in hard wooden chairs, preparing themselves for a long night vigil.

They passed the next hour talking about their missions and reporting to Treville all that had been forgotten once they found out the injuries of their friend. They also discussed how to punish the recruits, Porthos was in favour of terminating their training straight away and denying them commissions whilst Treville tried to be diplomatic and give them a second chance although they could see that he was as dismayed by the recruits' lack of concern as his men. Aramis didn't want anything to do with them, if they couldn't look out for one of their own in peace time, what would they do in the midst of a battle?

During their hushed heated discussion, Treville disrupted them with mention of food.

"Gentlemen, we have all night to decide what to do. But for now we need to eat and be there for Athos." He leaned back and grabbed the bowls and tables from the dresser. "Porthos, pass the pot." Despite being the captain, a position which would expect someone else to serve up his food, he ladled the steaming food into the bowls and passed them round to his men.

The stew was hearty and fulfilling; had this been any other day they would be rejoicing at the good food, but at the moment it felt like lead shot at the bottom of their stomachs.

Food eaten and pot empty, Treville placed the pile of bowls and spoons and the pot outside the door and shut it quietly; he didn't want anyone else interrupting this private moment. Turning, he looked over his men, they all were looking solemn, like men that had already lost important people in their lives and couldn't bear to lose another one.

Aramis had his crucifix clasped in both hands and his lips were moving in a silent prayer. D'Artagnan was back clasping one of Athos' hands in both of his own, as if by strength of will alone he could stop death. Porthos had one hand on Aramis' knee in a gesture of support, the other on resting on Athos' free wrist, fingers deftly finding the pulse point. Treville settled back in his chair by d'Artagnan and waited.

They stayed like that all night, anxiously watching each small breath. Apart from Treville, who left a few hours before dawn to catch a little sleep before training in the morning and gave orders to waken him if Athos looked like he was getting worse, they all were silent and still. They caught a few minutes of sleep in small snatches, desperate to be awake and aware if the worst should happen and Athos slipped away.

* * *

This chapter is dedicated to my brother, who at the time of writing had his university graduation ceremony. He now has a degree in physics! My family now has the full set of science degrees (biology, chemistry and physics), I'm the odd one out with an archaeology degree.


End file.
